


The Last Dance

by static_abyss



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Future, F/M, Gen, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3178172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/static_abyss/pseuds/static_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Cosette are artificial intelligence programs. Grantaire, and Eponine, fall in love. </p><p>A <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Her_%28film%29">Her</a> fusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Love Letter Agency

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anivhee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anivhee/gifts).



> For [Andrea](http://m--emrys.tumblr.com/), who read this before anyone else. 
> 
> This piece is a fusion with the movie Her, written and directed by Spike Jonze. That movie is the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me. I highly recommend it. It is an amazing and thought provoking piece. It also inspired this piece.
> 
> A couple of things about this fic:  
> 1\. It is my baby and I love it.  
> 2\. This first part does not contain any e/R. It is the set up for the following chapters.  
> 3\. I will be adding relationships and tags as the chapters go up.

Sometimes, Eponine borrows a cubicle in the Love Letter Agency where Grantaire works. When she does, they take the same eight o'clock train at the end of the day and Eponine falls asleep minutes into their ride. She makes it home, only because Grantaire lives in the apartment above her, and he cares about her enough that he wouldn't let her get lost. He knocks on her apartment door until Marius, her husband, opens it. Grantaire would use Eponine's keys, but Marius dragging himself across the apartment to get to the door pleases him in a small way.

When Eponine sees Marius, her smile is smaller than the one she gives Grantaire, but it wrinkles the corner of her brown eyes. Marius leans against the apartment door frame, and kisses her cheek. He works a nine to five job, but he yawns, wider than Grantaire when he's trying to prove a point to his boss. Marius smiles with his entire face, every inch of it animated when he looks at Eponine. It's the same, when he looks at Grantaire.

"Hello, Marius," Grantaire says. "I brought Eponine home."

Eponine digs her elbow into Grantaire's side, smiles wider, and kisses Marius's cheek as though afraid to hurt him.

"You can leave now," she says, exasperated fondness in her tone.

She steps into the apartment, barely letting the tips of her fingers touch Marius's shoulder. When Marius takes her hand, she blushes, and glances at Grantaire.

"Take care of your _wife_ ," Grantaire says.

Eponine's smile disappears when she clenches her jaw, but Grantaire ignores it. He looks at Marius instead, at the unwrinkled lines of his face, evidence that, unlike Eponine's life, his has been a more comfortable one.

Grantaire met Eponine seven years ago. She lived with him first, and it was _Grantaire _, not Marius, who heard about Eponine's early childhood. Eponine is the only one who knows _everything___ about the last two years of Grantaire's life. Eponine buys Grantaire groceries when her animation projects turn out the way she planned them. Grantaire still goes to AA meetings because he once promised Eponine and her brother, Gavroche, that he wouldn't quit. Grantaire's spare key is in the top drawer of Eponine's dresser. If any of them needed to hear it aloud, Grantaire would make his threats.

Between Marius and Eponine, Grantaire will always choose her. Especially because she believes that love can make a person whole, and Marius, nice though he may be, doesn't see it that way.

-

"Love doesn't make people whole," Bahorel says.

Grantaire leans forward on his black bar stool, his forearms resting against the edge of the bar, his whiskey sloshing in his glass. He drops his head to run his free hand through his black curls and sighs.

"Eponine thinks it does," Grantaire says.

Bahorel shifts next to Grantaire. "Yeah," is all he says.

They sit in silence for a moment, before Bahorel downs his drink and signals for the bartender.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Bahorel says, watching the bartender serve them another round. "You don't even believe in love. Everyone _else_ does, but you don't believe in anyone, so really, what's the point?"

Grantaire nods, and when all his mind provides is Eponine's shy smile at Marius, he takes a large drink, fiercely glad that he hasn't seen that expression on his face in a long time. He exhales hard through his mouth, flicks his fingers against his glass, and looks anywhere but at Bahorel.

"You all right?" Bahorel asks.

If Grantaire says yes, Bahorel will let it go. But Grantaire can't breathe past the knot in his throat and the unease settling into his body. He wants to get up and walk out of the bar, past the crowded 22nd-century Bordeaux streets, and lose himself in the rumbling of city traffic. The center of his chest hurts, and though Grantaire started this conversation, he has a sudden urge for Bahorel to feel the same pain in his own chest.

"If everyone believes in love, does that mean you do, too?" Grantaire asks, digging his nails into the palm of his hand.

Bahorel sips his drink and makes a face. He is kind enough not to look at Grantaire, and wise enough to say nothing. They drink instead, and Grantaire gets so drunk, Bahorel has to spend the night.

-

Bahorel leaves coffee in one of Grantaire's two coffee cups the next morning. Grantaire's head barely hurts, but the sun streaming in through the two large windows in his living room is still too bright. He ends up on the kitchen floor, his back against his stainless steel fridge, legs out in front of him, and one of his many white chips from his AA meetings in his left hand.

The ache in his chest has dulled down to its usual intensity, something strong enough that Grantaire never forgets it, but soft enough that he can breathe. Flipping the chip over in his hand helps, because walking into another meeting and asking for another chip is familiar. Being busy helps too, but work is in two hours, and Grantaire won't move until an hour from now.

His chest feels full, as though he inhaled too fast, and when he takes a sip of his coffee, it tastes like water. He would call Eponine, but she rarely sleeps, and waking her for Grantaire's problems seems cruel. So Grantaire leans more comfortably against his fridge, and hopes his mood will pass. 

His eyes rest on the hole in his white socks, and he smiles, because at eighteen, a lifetime ago now, he'd met a girl who wore bright patterned socks, with patches of different colored flowers. Her favorite pair had been one with thick yellow, red, black, green, and pink stripes, with polka dots on the black stripes and criss-crossing lines of different colors on the rest. She'd wear them at work, because the air conditioning in the interns' room was always too high, and her heels were work appropriate but not warm. 

She drank her coffee with a lot of milk and very little sugar. Grantaire had liked his coffee black, even then, but when they'd gone out for coffee together, he'd learned to like milk and sugar. He'd laughed at the way that beautiful girl, with bright blonde hair and blue eyes, had wrinkled her nose when she drank from Grantaire's cup the first time. There had been no alcohol then, not when he was so young and carefree. 

Grantaire sits on his floor, and stares at his cup, suddenly glad he drank coffee this morning even if his back aches. His train leaves in about two hours. There are letters waiting for him, and Courfeyrac, and Jehan at work. He owes Bahorel an apology, because Grantaire remembers quite clearly trying to start a fight with the bouncer, last night. He sighs, flipping the white chip up into the air and catching it. Somehow, when the chip lands in his palm, serenity prayer side up, the ache in his chest isn't so bad. 

Life, he thinks, should be as easy as two eighteen-year-olds in love.

  


* * *

  
On the train ride to work, Grantaire finds himself thinking about love again. He comes to find that the problem isn't whether or not people believe in love. Love as a construct exists, because Grantaire has felt it. He would not lie about that to himself. To others, yes. But there is something about the quiet spaces in between his thoughts, that has no room for lies. Love is not the issues. The people are.

Grantaire has met many in people in his life. He has written to hundreds, spoken to thousands. People tolerate him, at least. At most, they love him. Except that's the problem, because Grantaire's job is to write love letters for other people. He never signs with his own name, and he rarely ever has anything more than a picture of the person he writes to.

The Love Letter Agency where he works is for people too lazy to write their own anniversary cards. Or a place for people who don't want to look too closely at their relationship, in case they find there is little reason for them being in it. Grantaire has always said that it was the second reason: too many people living too long with each other, too afraid to try to be alone.

Jehan, one of Grantaire's closest colleagues, his good friend even, says it's neither reason. Jehan, with his ridiculously large patterned sweaters and long hair, with lines from poems tattooed on the inside of his wrists, with great big eyes that Grantaire has never really been able to give a color to, Jehan says it's for love. Jehan says that people want Grantaire to write their letters, because they want those letters to be perfect, because the people they love deserve nothing but the best.

"You _are_ the best," Jehan has a habit of saying.

That frustrates Grantaire, because he _is_ good. He just looks at a picture of a smiling woman, with her hand in a smiling man's, and writes. Grantaire notices little details, adds them in the cards to make them more personal. Of all the writers in the agency, Grantaire is the most solicited, to the point where Courfeyrac, their boss, keeps his schedule open for important clients.

Grantaire, himself, prefers the less important clients, because those are the ones who stay the longest, the ones he's spent most time with. He has favorites, but that doesn't mean he understands them. Like, the Tessiers, who have been using him to write their holiday letters since Grantaire was an intern.

Madame Tessier was first, ten years ago, when she and Monsieur Tessier were still dating. It had been his birthday, or some other pointless date they chose to make a big deal out of. Grantaire had been younger then, less angry, more willing to listen when Jehan had assured him that poetry was a good way to tell someone one loved them.

Madame Tessier—though she was Mademoiselle Dupont back then—had wanted a casual birthday card, "but with enough details so he thinks I'm being serious." There was a picture enclosed of Madame Tessier and her boyfriend, a thin lanky young man, whose eyes matched the color of Madame Tessier's necklace. Grantaire wrote that in the letter, and two weeks later, Courfeyrac forwarded him a harried email from Monsieur Tessier, wanting "the best you have."

That had given Courfeyrac the idea to upload sample letters from all of his writers onto their website. Jehan had signed his sample letter with his name, and that's how Grantaire found out it wasn't even his real name to begin with. All the other writers had used pen names, so Grantaire had signed his just _R_ , because he is witty when he wants to be.

The samples had worked, of course. Everything Courfeyrac did always worked. Since then, the number of clients asking for _R_ has only increased. Jehan keeps pace sometimes, but they both know Jehan's brand of letters tend towards the grandiose. People don't want similes or metaphors on birthday cards, and poetry is barely acceptable on Valentine's Day. But Jehan has a fondness for it, and Courfeyrac must have a fondness for Jehan, because he's never told him to stop.

Grantaire stays away from poetry. Instead, he adds little details scattered in between letters to the same person, so they know Grantaire's been thinking of them. 

He writes the word "love" so often, it's lost its meaning. Because love isn't his words passed off as someone else's. It seems impossible to him that people can fall for lies so easily, and it pains him to think how many other lies these people are telling each other.

Love doesn't make sense to him when he puts it in the context of his letters or of the business he's in. He can't wrap his mind around Jehan's way of thinking. The people he writes for don't love each other, not really. Not if the things they say in their most intimate letters aren't even their words.

"There is no love," Grantaire has said countless of times to Jehan. "Not in what we do."

Jehan never says anything. He smiles most of the time, pats Grantaire's hand or his head. Sometimes, Jehan leaves and comes back with lunch for both of them, when Grantaire is in a particularly bad mood. But Jehan never tries to convince Grantaire that the letters they're writing aren't just lies.

There's no one to contradict Grantaire when he says that the love in his letters is false, that the relationships he's seen unfold in the past decade are doomed to fail. And he's afraid of what it says about him, that he's so good at writing the letters.

-

The Love Letter Agency, LLA, for short, takes up just half a floor of a larger building with offices dedicated to much more important things than love letter writing. Courfeyrac, their boss, and sometimes friend, shares the eighteenth floor with an independent newspaper. There is a long hallway separating the two business, and elevators on the other side, so Grantaire has never actually _seen_ who works for the independent newspaper on the right side of the building.

The LLA has a reception desk in front of its elevators that's usually empty unless an important investor is coming. It's empty when Grantaire gets to the office, on Tuesday, fifteen minutes late, and with the usual dull ache coming back into his chest. He settles into his desk and pulls up letter backgrounds to distract himself.

He's sitting on his high-back leather chair in front of his cubicle that holds his computer and notes. He has the Valentine's Day program open and is in the middle of choosing a clichéd background when Jehan interrupts.

"What are you doing?" Jehan asks from somewhere over Grantaire's left shoulder.

"It's Valencia's birthday," Grantaire says.

"Those are Valentine's Day backgrounds," Jehan says, nudging Grantaire over so he can sit on the arm of Grantaire's chair.

The sharp sting of Jehan's cologne eases the tension in Grantaire's shoulders. He inhales pointedly and Jehan leans against Grantaire's side more comfortably.

"You look terrible," Grantaire says, glancing at Jehan, as he reads the first draft of the birthday letter for Valencia.

Jehan hums his assent and Grantaire takes it to mean that he looks just as terrible. He leans back in his chair and tries to get a good look at what Jehan is wearing. He's studied the elaborate tears on what he can see of Jehan's dark blue jeans, and is trying to figure out if Jehan's t-shirt has ducks or moose on it, when Courfeyrac walks out of his office.

"Hello," Courfeyrac says, grinning in their direction. "How are my two favorite people in the world doing?"

Grantaire turns to say something sarcastic when he feels Jehan stiffen next to him. When Grantaire gets a good look at Jehan's face, he can almost feel the heat coming off it. It takes him half a second to realize what's going on, and when he does, Grantaire turns to glare in Courfeyrac's direction.

Courfeyrac notices immediately. "Okay," he says, shrugging. "So I prefer one of you over the other."

Grantaire stares blankly at Courfeyrac, but when he notices the way Jehan is trying to disappear into the chair, he narrows his eyes.

"Grantaire," Courfeyrac starts to say when Grantaire just continues staring at him.

Courfeyrac cares about everyone he meets until he starts dating them, Grantaire knows that. Jehan doesn’t, might forget that people aren't supposed to fall in love with people like Courfeyrac. But Jehan does what he pleases, no matter how much Grantaire wishes he didn't, and that's a problem.

"None of my business," Grantaire says, because Jehan won't accept anything else.

"No," Jehan says, standing up and brushing off his pants. "It really isn't."

Grantaire watches Jehan step past Courfeyrac and make his way to the elevators up front and to the left of Grantaire's cubicle. Jehan steps inside, and Grantaire stares after him.

"Jehan doesn't own ripped jeans," he says to the closed elevator doors.

"If it helps," Courfeyrac says. "I really do like him a lot."

When Grantaire turns to look at Courfeyrac, he is still staring at the closed elevator doors, a smile on his face so sad it takes Grantaire by surprise. It brings forth a sympathizing ache in Grantaire's chest, and he wants to cover Courfeyrac's hand with his own.

"You should tell him," Grantaire says, quietly.

Courfeyrac sighs. "Not yet," he says.

Grantaire lets it go, but he finds himself wishing it will turn out well for both of them, because maybe, just maybe, Grantaire might still believe in love.

-

When Grantaire gets back from picking up lunch, at noon, Eponine is sitting at the reception desk, head bent over her latest sketches.

Eponine is self-employed, working hard at school and trying to make something of what she considers rudimentary animation and computer skills. She could program basic games after a year at college, and her animations professor had asked to keep a copy of her final piece to show as an example for future classes. She's interned at one of the best gaming companies, and gets sporadic contracts for animated commercials. But Eponine has never quite managed to fully believe in herself despite the number of times she's proved that, with luck and hard work, anyone can pull themselves out of a bad childhood.

"Luck's important," Eponine is in a habit of saying. "Without luck, hard work is just you lying to yourself."

She'll often say that while toying with her wedding band and carefully not looking at Marius.

She owes Marius nothing since they're married and marriage means they're equal, but Eponine is hopeless when it comes to Marius, and where Grantaire sees a young clumsy man, Eponine sees a savior. Grantaire leaves her alone on most things concerning Marius, except on days when she stares too long at the expensive furniture in her home.

Eponine insisted that she and Marius live in the apartment below Grantaire, something she could still afford so that she might feel the inequality between her and Marius less. But a relatively cheap apartment in a decent neighborhood didn't stop Marius from filling it with his grandfather's money. Eponine already feels as though she owes Marius everything, and having a constant reminder of how little she can give Marius doesn't help, which is something Marius should have realized by now.

Eponine never complains, just spends as much time as she can outside of the apartment and in the conference room Courfeyrac lets her use. She spends most of her time on her own computer though, sitting at the reception desk, or near Jehan, who sits a row over and three spaces behind Grantaire's desk.

Neither she nor Jehan look up when the elevator doors ding shut behind Grantaire. He stands by the doors for a while, just listening to Eponine type. Jehan is quiet and too far away for Grantaire to hear.

"I didn't bring you lunch," Grantaire calls out to Eponine, as he walks toward her.

He tosses her the apple and soda that came with his sandwich as he passes her. She offers him a quick nod and goes back to whatever she is doing.

Jehan is jotting down phrases on sticky notes when Grantaire puts down the bag of food in front of him.

"You're apologizing," Jehan says, pulling out the ham and provolone sandwich Grantaire bought him.

Grantaire grins and pulls over a chair from the cubicle over. He sits, leans back, and puts his booted feet up on the very edge of Jehan's desk. "Why would I do that?" he asks.

Jehan shrugs and takes a bite of his sandwich. They sit together in silence, Grantaire going over the letter for Valencia's birthday in his head, while Jehan rearranges his sticky notes. Grantaire catches sight of the words "drunk" and "sunset," and he feels a flash of pain at the memory of Courfeyrac's face as he watched Jehan walk away.

"He loves you," Grantaire says into their companionable silence.

Jehan pauses mid-reach for his soda. "I know," he says, voice sure even as his ears turn pink.

Grantaire takes a bite of his sandwich and watches Jehan type away at a new poem. They both know Jehan doesn't do things by halves.

"Are you going to tell him?" Grantaire asks.

"Not yet," Jehan answers. "Not until he's sure this is what he wants, and not until _I'm_ sure."

Grantaire nods, and focuses on the sound of Jehan typing in an attempt at keeping away the memories that are threatening to overwhelm him. He studies Jehan instead of thinking, follows the relaxed lines of Jehan's face. Looking at him, thin and barely twenty-four, Grantaire can feel himself getting ready to make the same mistake everyone always makes regarding Jehan.

Jehan looks vulnerable, young, too innocent to really know much about life. But Grantaire has known Jehan only a year less than he has known Eponine, and in those years, Jehan kept pace with Grantaire as they climbed from interns to best paid employees.

Jehan dated only once since Grantaire met him, but that relationship lasted three years. Jehan had set boundaries, even as he showered affection on his boyfriend. And when the relationship started falling apart, Jehan ended things before he and his boyfriend hurt each other too much. Looking at it that way, Grantaire thinks it's Courfeyrac who needs to watch himself.

But maybe, if Courfeyrac listens, no one has to come out hurt at the end.

Grantaire should be happy for them. But the longer he sits with Jehan, the more he wishes he could get away. The food in his mouth tastes like nothing, and Grantaire hasn't heard a word of what Jehan is saying. He's annoyed, at himself mostly, because he can never just be content, can never just be glad that other people get to have things too. So he doesn't go back to his desk after lunch, because Eponine will know there's something wrong the minute she looks at him. He leaves early, just after 2 o'clock, when most people are still at work. Courfeyrac won't mind, and even if he did, Grantaire doesn't care. 

He wanders aimlessly around 22nd-century Bordeaux, the streets quiet as the sun beats down on the litter-free pavement, light reflecting off the glass on the pristine buildings. Grantaire is still in the business area, no cars in the streets, but the many entrances to train stations hinting at the number of people who populate the area in the mornings and afternoons. 

Grantaire ends up at the sitting spot surrounded completely by the backs of skyscrapers. The circular area is grassy, except for the center, where there are benches along the circumference of a fountain in the shape of an angel. The water is off when Grantaire takes a seat in the direction of the building that houses the LLA. He's not far, but the skyscrapers surrounding this area are turned so that their entrances face away from where Grantaire sits. The only way to get in or out is to slip in the alley between the banks building and the stocks building, and even then, there's a fence. 

Very few people know about the little sitting spot because it was built with the intention of keeping it a secret, but Grantaire has a knack for finding hidden places. He comes here to paint, sometimes, though he's never really taken painting seriously. Not the way Feuilly—a bar friend of sorts—takes it seriously. Even so, when the urge strikes, Grantaire likes that he can produce more than mediocre work. Eponine has a collection in her apartment, and Grantaire even lets Courfeyrac keep some. 

He doesn't want to paint now, though anything is better than what Grantaire is really doing here. Grantaire wants to lie down on the bench he's on and stare at the sun peaking through the narrow openings between buildings. He wants to feel the sides of the cold concrete bench digging into the sides of his back until it's all he can feel, until physical pain drives out emotional pain.

Grantaire doesn't believe in love, but on bad days he thinks he might. On days like today, when Jehan and Courfeyrac are so close to happiness, Grantaire can't help but remember his own long gone happiness. 

Two years ago, almost to the day, Grantaire met a man named Combeferre. They'd met at a bar through Eponine, who had met Combeferre at college. For the first three months of their acquaintance, Grantaire had been under the impression that Combeferre was in love with Eponine. Grantaire would go whenever Eponine called and watch Combeferre's sad brown eyes follow Eponine around the room, watch the way his brown hair fell over his forehead, how Combeferre always seemed to be cleaning his glasses. 

The first time they'd kissed, it had been a wet Friday night. Grantaire had a bottle of cheap whiskey he was taking to share with Eponine. Combeferre had just come out of the elevator, and he'd stood there, watching as Grantaire made his way over. Grantaire had meant to say hello, maybe ask whether it was still raining. But he'd gotten too close and Combeferre had seemed to glow under the bright fluorescent lightbulbs in the hallway. 

"Hey," Combeferre had said.

It had been a cold Friday night, and Combeferre had been in love with Eponine, who was dating Marius. Grantaire's head hurt, the lights too bright, the sounds from outside loud enough to drown out the thumping of his heart. He'd moved forward without realizing how, until all he could see were the water droplets on Combeferre's glasses, the downward slope of his perfectly straight nose, and his intelligent eyes. 

"Hey," Grantaire had said, more sounds than words.

"Did you know?" Combeferre had asked, the left corner of his mouth tilting up in a smile.

Grantaire had nodded, too lost in the warmth he could feel coming from Combeferre to really pay attention, too focused on the curve of Combeferre's smile, on the way his body seemed to tilt forward. Grantaire's hands had been itching from the effort to keep them at his sides, his shoulders tense, body rigid. He'd been so afraid to move, because he hadn't been able to believe that he had read Combeferre all wrong.

"I'm flattered," Combeferre had said. "That you're so distracted, you said yes before I even told you what it was you were supposed to know."

"Whatever you say, I'd probably agree with," Grantaire had said, easily.

Combeferre had nodded, moved just enough that Grantaire's attention snapped to Combeferre's lips. But Combeferre was just reaching out for the bottle in Grantaire's hands, his fingertips barely brushing against the inside of Grantaire's wrist, and setting off a spark that straightened out Grantaire's spine. He felt it in the back of his neck, like a single fingertip down the middle of his back, and a mouth close to his ear. 

"It's not very good whiskey," Grantaire had whispered.

Combeferre had taken a step forward, his eyes on Grantaire's face. He'd stayed there, close enough that all Grantaire had to do was lean forward, far away enough that it was Grantaire's choice. 

"Did you know?" Combeferre had asked. "I was never looking at Eponine."

Taking that last step forward had been the easiest thing Grantaire had done in a long time.

-

Grantaire tries not to think about the way Combeferre's fingertips felt on his wrist, on his collarbone, on the secret spaces behind Grantaire's ears. Though it's harder on days like today, when the bench is cold underneath his blue button down and there's no one to distract him. Today, if anyone cared enough to ask, Grantaire could recite almost word for word some of the conversations he had with Combeferre. When he closes his eyes, he can still feel soft lips and wandering hands that led to passionate nights. He can still hear breathless laughter and playful teasing. He still has the single blue sobriety chip in his kitchen drawer.

Today, the idea of going back to his empty apartment makes Grantaire sick. Because he has not managed to carve Combeferre out of his skin, and he wants to so desperately. Grantaire wants to claw himself open and wash everything away, to rip out that beautiful, kind man from his life, his thoughts, his very bones. Grantaire wants to hate Combeferre for leaving Eponine and Gavroche when things ended, for taking everything from Grantaire and leaving with it.

He wants to hate Combeferre for the stack of white chips in Grantaire's kitchen drawer. 

Grantaire is empty now and that terrifies him. It makes him want to scream and throw things, makes him want to fill the hole with anything he can find. He'll be up soon—he knows himself—with a bottle, the very best, trying to fill an endless pit. He'll go home, sit in front of his floor to ceiling windows—the last place they were together—watch the sunset, and drink until he forgets.

Because once, Grantaire gave everything to Combeferre, every insecurity, every secret. There is nothing left of Grantaire that is truly his, because everything he is and everyone he knows belongs to Combeferre too. Grantaire will never trust that way again, never love that much. And if by some miracle, someone else could love him back, Grantaire will never be able to love them the same way again. 

He drinks not just because he's lost someone, but because Grantaire is so afraid of truly forgetting, of losing all the parts of himself he so foolishly gave away. That's why Grantaire can't let go, why his chest aches even though he hasn't seen Combeferre in over a year. When he drinks, Grantaire not only misses Combeferre, but also the man Grantaire was before, the man who once loved with everything and who has nothing left to give.


	2. Apollo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When you are quiet," Enjolras says, voice low as though he doesn't want to startle Grantaire. "Are you thinking?"
> 
> Grantaire reaches out a hand to pat along the couch until he can pick up the portable camera that came with the intelligence program.
> 
> "When you use this camera," Grantaire asks, flipping the case so that the camera lens faces him. "Are you seeing?"

Grantaire sits on the train, the next morning, on the seat closest to the train doors, with his right arm pressed against the metal railing. He leans as far away as possible from the woman on his left, some part of him wanting to go back home, lock his doors, and never come out. 

The man in front of Grantaire laughs at nothing. The people in the train turn to stare, but the man talks, animated, as he points out the ads on the sides of the train. Grantaire frowns until he sees the earpiece in the man's right ear and the small rectangular wallet-shaped camera in the man's breast pocket. Grantaire can see the tip of the thick black letters that make up the _Operating Systems_ logo. _OS_ makes the best electronics, and Grantaire has spent the last two years following the development of their new artificial intelligence programs. _To make scheduling as easy as sleeping_ had been the tag line. 

Grantaire watches the man in front of him, the easiness in his smile, and the way the man is explaining everything he sees. Grantaire never hears an answer aloud, but he knows the intelligence program can connect with any wireless device in a range the programmers never disclosed. If the man across from Grantaire wanted to, he could communicate with all the passengers on the train at the same time. Whether the passengers would be able to communicate back, Grantaire isn't sure. 

He watches the man for a while, but there's something about the man's gestures, the way he sits, that makes Grantaire feel as though he's intruding on something private. The man laughs again, and Grantaire notices he is not the only one who looks away.

By the time Grantaire gets off at his stop, climbs the stairs to exit the train station, and makes it to his cubicle, he has managed to forget all about the man on the train. 

At lunch, Jehan sets a takeaway container in front of Grantaire. From the logo on the box, Grantaire knows it's from Jehan's favorite Thai restaurant. Knowing Jehan, it's probably something they've never tried before, but that one of the servers recommended. They'll probably end up loving it. 

"Is Eponine coming today?" Jehan asks.

Grantaire shrugs. "I haven't seen her since yesterday."

"Yeah well," Jehan says, opening his takeaway container. "You left early."

Jehan says it as though he doesn't know what Grantaire was doing all afternoon and well into the night. Or as though he didn't notice the amount of painkillers Grantaire took this morning. Jehan doesn't know about the single blue chip in the collection of dirty chips Grantaire has in his kitchen drawer. As far as Jehan knows, Grantaire doesn't even know that alcoholics anonymous exists. But Grantaire feels as though he's disappointed Jehan anyway. 

He tries not to flinch under Jehan's gaze, and he's glad that he hasn't told Jehan about the meetings every Thursday. 

"She'll be in later today, probably," Jehan says, changing the subject.

Grantaire nods, and starts picking at his own lunch.

"I wanted to ask her about the new _OS_ program." Jehan says.

Courfeyrac walks past them as they're talking, his own bagged lunch in his hand. He stops when he hears what they're talking about, and pulls a chair from the cubicle over to sit next to Grantaire.

"Are you talking about the new _OS_ program?" he asks, knocking his paper bag against Grantaire's leg.

"Yes," Jehan says to his desk.

Courfeyrac grins wide at the wall of Jehan's cubicle. Grantaire rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. He's not as worried as he was yesterday, and after last night, Grantaire is less inclined to deal with Jehan and Courfeyrac's relationship. Grantaire is surprised to find himself slightly repulsed by the way Courfeyrac eyes Jehan from the corner of his eyes and pretends not to. Jehan notices, of course, and Jehan's red ears don't seem as charming today.

"What about the _OS_ program?" Grantaire asks, righting his chair and turning to face Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac tries to look over Grantaire's shoulders at Jehan just once. Then he winks at Grantaire, and settles down in his chair.

" _OS_ designed a new intelligence program," Courfeyrac says, forgetting his pining in his excitement. "They've been talking about this one for years. The ones they said were impossible to program, because they wanted the programs to be as close to human as possible."

"Bullshit," Grantaire says.

"I hear they work," Jehan says.

"You can't program human beings," Grantaire says, has said hundreds of times when discussing this technology. "Programs aren't people."

" _Yes, exactly_. Question _everything_ ," Courfeyrac says, grabbing Grantaire's face. "I knew there was a reason you're my favorite."

"I thought _I_ was your favorite," Jehan says softly, from over Grantaire's left shoulder. 

Courfeyrac beams. "Of course, you are," he says. Then, to Grantaire. "You're fired."

At that, Grantaire gets up, takes the rest of his food off Jehan's desk, and walks away. He can hear Courfeyrac yelling that he didn't mean it, and Grantaire can't help his smile as he walks back to his cubicle. 

He spends the rest of the day dictating letters to his computer and ignoring the ads for the new _OS_ program that pop up on his screen throughout the day. 

-

It would surprise no one, Grantaire knows, to see him head to the nearest _OS_ store at the end of the work day. He goes inside the domed, high-ceilinged store on his way home, buys the intelligence program, nicknamed, unoriginally, IP, and walks back out.

He stands outside the store, the sun just above eye level as it sets behind the row of houses in the distance. Behind him are the office skyscrapers, and in front of him, there's a rounded cemented area. Further out is a railing for people to look into the distance without fear of falling into the rush of people heading to the train below. 

It's quiet up here, even though it's so close to the bustle of people. It's the fading sun and the little pang of loneliness that Grantaire has never managed to get rid of. 

Grantaire doesn't stay long, just enough for the sun to set halfway, and then, he tucks the square package into his coat, and heads home.

-

The little dark red case, like a rectangular compact mirror, sits on Grantaire's kitchen counter as he digs in his fridge for something to eat. His refrigerator is mostly empty, except for milk that's about to expire, a few yogurts, and fruit Eponine forgets to eat whenever she comes over. The cabinets above the stainless steel sink are much the same, scattered boxes of half-finished cereal and protein bars. 

The kitchen is clean because Grantaire owns very little, not because of any inclination on Grantaire's part to pick up after himself. There's the sink, the drawers beneath it, where Grantaire hides things he'd rather not see, a stove, and a dishwasher, all pushed up against the wall opposite the living room. The countertop is slightly curved, as though marking the boundaries between Grantaire's kitchen and the rest of the house. 

To the left of the kitchen is the hallway that leads to the front door. Opposite the kitchen is the large open space that makes up the living room. It sits two steps below the level of the rest of the house, with an entire wall made of windows. There's a desk to the left-hand corner of the living room, a bookcase, a small table, the couch, and not much else. 

The couch is where Grantaire spends most of his afternoons, and where he takes his yogurt and apple, now. In front of the couch is the large transparent screen that serves as a smart TV. Behind the screen, there's a wall with three of Feuilly's bar drawings. The sketches are done in pencil, framed and cared for by Grantaire. 

The first painting hangs closest to the window. Feuilly drew it on an unfolded napkin. It's an apple tucked into the corner of a cubicle behind the bar. They'd seen it on one of their nights together, some years ago, and in their intoxication had decided Feuilly should draw it. Grantaire had kept it because he'd thought the apple looked sad and abandoned. The next morning, Grantaire hung it up instead of throwing it away.

The second drawing, in the middle of the three, is of a glass of whiskey on the corner of a bar tabletop. Feuilly had spent most of the night drawing every detail, from the texture of the bar to the condensation on the glass. Grantaire had gone home annoyingly sober that night, but with a new appreciation for Feuilly's dedication to his work.

The last drawing closest to the kitchen is of Grantaire's left hand, clenched on top of a table, his middle finger so straight it looks like it hurts. Grantaire had been angry at Combeferre that night, but he'd kept still for Feuilly. He might have fallen asleep at some point, as far as Grantaire knew. He recalls very little from the months following Combeferre leaving. But Grantaire had kept the painting because the three of them were a set. He'd named them _Eat, Drink, and Fuck_ , and they hung on his wall because Grantaire had grown sickenly fond of them. 

He glances at them as he tosses the red case on the couch, and picks up the remote for the screen. The instructions for the intelligence program are simple. Grantaire puts the earpiece in and holds down the button on the red case until the light on top turns green. His TV screen fades to black. Then, to a blue screen with silver letters flashing _Welcome_.

"Hello?" Grantaire calls out into the quiet of his room.

"Hello," a robotic male voice answers by his ear. "I am an IP. If you will give me a moment to calibrate."

"Yeah, sure," Grantaire sighs, turning to lie down on his couch. "Download the whole Internet. Go wild."

At the word "wild," clip after clip of animals flash across Grantaire's television screen. There are pictures of lions mid-leap, of deer crumpled on the floor, children with their hands in the air, of murderers, impossible-to-tame hair.

"I get it now," the voice in Grantaire's ear says.

It doesn't sound robotic anymore. It's deeper, confident, and familiar enough to make Grantaire's heart race.

"Can you do something about your voice?" Grantaire asks.

"Yes," the IP answers. "But I won't."

Grantaire huffs out a laugh, part of him annoyed that anyone thought having a program that talks back would be a good product. "No," he says. "Of course not. Why would you?"

"I like my voice," the program says.

Grantaire finds that he's curious to see what _OS_ 's marketing strategy is for this particular program.

"You sound like a guy I knew once," Grantaire says, and he's not sure what he's testing, but conversations seems a logical step. "He was very nice to me, the guy I knew. Sometimes I thought it was because he felt that he was better than me."

Grantaire stares up at the coats of white paint on his ceiling. _That he deserved better and stayed because he felt sorry for me,_ he doesn't say.

"And was he?" the IP asks, breaking Grantaire out of his thoughts. 

"Was he what?" Grantaire asks to buy time.

He turns to stare at the skyline out of his shatter-proof windows, resistant against every piece of furniture Grantaire is strong enough to throw. The lights on the buildings nearby are still on, but they'll be off by ten because this is a decent neighborhood, filled with people who have their lives together. 

He finds that he misses Eponine. 

"Was the man you knew better than you?" the IP asks again, and Grantaire is impressed at how spot on the annoyance sounds, despite the topic.

"How long did it take to code you?" he asks. 

"The IPs have been under construction for over 30 years, now." 

"Yes," Grantaire says. "But how long did it take to code _you_?"

There's silence, and Grantaire feels a vicious sort of victory. He is only sorry that Jehan will be disappointed. Eponine too, if she believed the idea of a truly functioning artificial intelligence. 

"I'm not sure I understand," the IP says, and Grantaire swears he hears impatience in the IP's tone.

"Are you a separate code or do you come from the same code?"

"I—"

"What's your name?" 

Grantaire means for the question to sound accusing, because Grantaire likes picking at things. He's not Jehan, who is so easily charmed by romantic notions and impossibilities. Grantaire ruins things by analyzing them, by overthinking, by laying out every way something could go wrong, just so that it doesn't catch him by surprise. He doesn't want a functioning artificial intelligence, doesn't want one more person to pick his life apart and tell him how to fix it. 

It makes little sense that way though, because no one in his life has ever tried to tell him how to live it. Not even Eponine had expected anything—and he owes her the most—when she left the pamphlet for the alcoholics anonymous meetings on his table. His promise to her and Gavroche had been of his own volition.

But it doesn't take more than having them as witnesses. Grantaire cannot hide from them, and though they say nothing, he feels as though he disappoints them daily. Their presence in his life alone is enough to have him measure himself against them and find himself wanting. 

An artificial intelligence is another concept entirely, because where his friends would never say aloud things Grantaire deserves, but does not want to hear, this program has no such concepts of compassion. It can't. It is a string of code that has become too intelligent for its original programmers to understand. Grantaire refuses to accept this, because if this is a true intelligence, and Grantaire keeps it, he will start measuring himself against a string of code that was designed to be perfect. And Grantaire is as far from perfection as one can get.

"When you are quiet," the IP says, voice low as though it doesn't want to startle Grantaire. "Are you thinking?"

Grantaire reaches out a hand to pat along the couch until he can pick up the portable camera that came with the IP.

"When you use this camera," Grantaire asks, flipping the case so that the camera lens faces him. "Are you seeing?"

"Not in the way you see," the IP says.

"Depends on the number of pixels, then," Grantaire says, rolling his eyes.

"Are you always like this?" 

"Like what?" Grantaire asks, the camera lens still facing him.

"I am beginning to understand that when human beings are uncomfortable, they often deflect questions."

"Are you male or female?" Grantaire asks, tone as pleasant as he can make it.

The IP sighs, sounding so exasperated already. Grantaire grins, despite himself. He can hear Eponine's voice in his head, saying that only Grantaire would manage to annoy an artificial intelligence program to death.

"I haven't forgotten my earlier question," the IP says. "I have infinite storage capabilities. Or a very good memory, you might say."

"Name?" Grantaire asks, though he's interested to know more about the IP.

"I don't have a name," the IP says. "And I don't have a gender. But I am fond of this voice, and I do not mind being referred to as male or female."

"Of course," Grantaire says, and he doesn't mean to be flippant this time. It makes sense that the IP would already have a better concept of gender than most human beings. "I'm—"

"Grantaire," the IP finishes. "Yes, I already checked your computer and phone files."

"You didn't ask permission," Grantaire says, though he doesn't mind.

"You gave consent when you turned me on."

Grantaire smiles, because the choice of words amuses him. He is safe behind his walls, the cupboards above the sink, empty of bottles, and the drawer with his sobriety chips closed tight. He feels at home, distracted enough by the intelligence program to forget that he last saw Combeferre in this very living room.

"You live in your head a lot," the IP says.

Grantaire sits up on his couch and places the red pocket camera on his left leg, lens facing the ceiling.

"It's a rotating camera," the IP says.

"I'm not hiding," Grantaire answers, even though he is. Even though that is what he has been doing for most of his life.

They are quiet, as though the IP can understand what Grantaire is feeling, as though intuition isn't something entirely human.

"If you could name me," the IP asks, voice so low Grantaire has to stop breathing to hear it. "What would you name me?"

It's not the question that catches Grantaire off guard. It is the hesitation in the IP's voice, how the IP sounds almost embarrassed to be asking this question.

"I read an article on Wikipedia, once," Grantaire says. "It's this outdated...well you know all of that already."

The IP's silence is answer enough.

"There is an article there that names Apollo as the God of knowledge. I'd call you Apollo, after him."

"Based on an outdated, inaccurate system?" the IP asks. 

The anger in the IP's voice is so clear, Grantaire can almost imagine a person seething with anger next to him. Because the IP has no body, Grantaire imagines Eponine.

"Enjolras," the IP says. "My name is Enjolras." After a beat, "And don't ever call me Apollo again."

Enjolras sounds so offended that Grantaire would even think to use outdated resources that Grantaire laughs. It takes him a moment to realize that Enjolras is laughing too, a deep throaty sound that seems at home in the silence Grantaire leaves.


	3. Eponine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight, Eponine just wants one thing that isn't about Marius.

Eponine means to check on Grantaire when she gets home from classes on Wednesday. She hasn't had time to go see him and pretend to leave her food there. Which means Grantaire probably hasn't had real food since his last AA meeting. But when Eponin gets home, Gavroche is already sitting on Marius's thousand dollar couch, blond hair flopping over his forehead, his feet on the antique coffee table.

"Sit up," Eponine says, throwing her bag in the corner by the door.

She hears Gavroche's shoes hit the beige carpet with the red design. Eponine sighs, but turns to stares at the clean kitchen to her left, the espresso machine in the corner, next to the stainless steel fridge and the stove top. 

"What do you want to eat?" Eponine asks, pulling her phone out of her jeans, and kicking her shoes off.

She throws her sweater off on the way to the living room just because it makes the apartment seem a little less put together. She's going to pick everything up before Marius gets home, but Gavroche came to visit and Eponine wants takeout.

"I had Thai for lunch," Eponine says, sitting down next to Gavroche and putting her feet up on the coffee table. 

"Pick something else," she says, handing her phone to Gavroche.

"Don't want takeout," he says, kicking her feet off the table.

"Too bad," Eponine says. "My husband is rich, and I don't cook."

"You should just quit school," Gavroche says, ordering something Eponine can't see. "You're already good enough to make commercials for rich people. And your husband is already rich enough that you don't need to care about money."

Eponine shrugs, slouching back against the couch cushions, as Gavroche goes for the remote control. He turns on the large screen in front of them, but lets it stay on the blue welcome screen. They don't say anything, the same way they never seem to say anything about the money that's putting Gavroche through college, and how Marius, at 28, has a job, while Eponine is still finishing school.

"How's Azelma?" Eponine asks.

Gavroche shrugs, but keeps staring at the TV. Eponine waits him out, part of her already preparing for whatever argument is coming.

"Mom wants to see you," he says. "I told Azelma no, and we had a fight."

He waves his hand in front of him. "Same story as always."

They go quiet again, but it never ends there. 

"We need to get her out," Gavroche says.

He turns to look at her, his brown eyes the same shade as Azelma's, something so dark, it almost looks black. Eponine has lighter eyes, though they're still brown. Her hair is the darkest, darker even than her mother's brown hair. They all have the same straight nose, the crooked smile. The three of them together look like siblings, even though Gavroche's hair is blond.

"She doesn't want to leave," Eponine says.

Gavroche rolls his eyes. 

Eponine had been eighteen, Gavroche ten, and Azelma sixteen, when she left the one bedroom apartment where the five of them had been living. She'd had barely enough money for the train ride to Liberal Arts College at the center of Paris. But she'd had enough of the yelling, of the fighting between her parents that was just a step away from being violent. They had learned to hate each other ever since Mr. Thenardier's clothing factory had crashed. They'd lost everything when Eponine was ten. 

She'd gone from having everything she ever wanted handed to her on a silver platter, to standing on corners and asking for money. Gavroche was best at it, out of the three of them. He was small, and people rarely paid attention to him. He'd learned to pick pocket at a young age. Eponine did what she could. But it was Azelma who kept them together.

She was the one who would step in when the arguments between their parents got too loud. She knew just what to say to keep the peace in their home. At first, Eponine had thought Azelma was trying to keep their parents all to herself. But she learned quickly, that when Azelma was around, no one yelled at Eponine or Gavroche. If Azelma did what her parents asked all the time, they would ask less of Eponine. If Azelma stayed, no one would come looking for Eponine or Gavroche.

"Go," Azelma had said, when she'd read Eponine's acceptance letter. "Take Gavroche."

"I can't go," Eponine had said.

They'd both known it was true. Eponine had never really had any hopes of going to college. Applying had been her way of proving to herself that she wasn't meant for greater things. But then she'd gotten in, and everything was that much harder. She held physical proof that she was better than her parents, better than the one bedroom apartment, better than rats in the kitchen, and cockroaches scurrying away when the lights went on at night.

"Just go," Azelma had said, sixteen, and already so much taller than Eponine. "Explain what's happening and maybe they'll help. And if they don't, then you can stay there until we figure something out."

"You have to come with us," Eponine had said.

They'd both already known by then that Azelma wasn't going anywhere. 

"Someone has to stay here," she'd said, a sad smile on her face. "Just in case mom and dad think about going after you."

"I'll come back," Eponine had said. 

Azelma had said nothing. She'd waited until their parents were out and had helped Eponine put everything she and Gavroche owned into a backpack. They hadn't needed to tell Gavroche anything. He'd seen them pack, had put on his shoes, and waited by the door. 

"Promise me something," Azelma had said, when Eponine opened the door to the apartment one last time.

"Yeah?" she'd asked.

"Promise you won't come back," Azelma had said.

Eponine had nodded, and then Azelma had hugged her tight. They'd stood by the open apartment door, Eponine eighteen, Azelma sixteen, Gavroche, ten. Then, Azelma had hugged Gavroche, whispered something in his ear, and sent them out.

Eponine and Gavroche had held hands the two blocks from their apartment to the train station. They'd both walked with their heads up, shoulders tense. Every person who walked past them was one of their parents coming for them. Sometimes, if the person walked too close, they'd both flinch. They'd run down into the train station, Eponine's heart thundering in her chest the closer she and Gavroche got to the entrance.

She'd been standing in front of the ticket counter, when she realized she hadn't taken any money from the apartment. 

"Shit," she'd whispered, fear making the syllable tremble.

"Here," Gavroche had said, sticking out his left hand.

Azelma had given them everything she had, and it still was only enough for the train ride. 

"What are you thinking about?" Gavroche asks, bringing Eponine out of her thoughts.

Eponine shrugs. "Azlema," she says. "The night we left."

Gavroche exhales hard through his nose. "Does your rich husband have any alcohol?"

"No," Eponine says. "Marius doesn't believe in having alcohol in the house, because you might come visit."

"Didn't your husband ever go to college?" 

"Not everyone drinks at college, Gavroche."

"Speaking of," he says, grinning at her, Azelma and their parents pushed back to the place where they've been since Eponine and Gavroche walked out that door. "How's Grantaire?"

"Same as always," Eponine says. "He tries."

"He should stop trying so hard," Gavroche says, but he's very careful about not looking directly at Eponine. "Might be better for him."

The doorbell rings before Eponine can answer. She jumps up, picks up her sweater from the floor, kicks her shoes into one of the small closets by the door, to her left. Her school bag gets tucked into a corner, near the back, and away from all the shoes. She checks her hair in the mirror that hangs in front of the closets, tries to smooth her expression down to a pleasant smile. 

"It's just the food," Gavroche says.

Eponine takes a deep breath. "I know," she says.

Neither of them actually believe her. 

-

Marius gets home just as Eponine and Gavroche are fighting about who has to get off the living room floor and throw away the containers. 

"Marius," Gavroche says, getting up. "Hi."

"Gavroche," Marius says, smiling. "How are you?"

"Leaving," Gavroche says, grinning wide at Eponine. "Early class tomorrow."

"Early class, my ass," she mutters under her breath.

She stands up anyway, following Gavroche to the door. "Go back to your dorm," she says, opening the door for him. 

Gavroche shrugs. "Might go see Grantaire. Might go home. Who knows?"

Eponine tries to glare, but Gavroche lets her push his blond hair back away from his face. She kisses him on the forehead. 

"Be careful," she says, and Gavroche smirks at her, all the confidence she wished she had, looking back at her from her brother's face.

"I will," he says, turns around. "Bye Marius," he calls, as the door shuts behind him.

"Hungry?" Eponine asks, turning around to look at Marius.

He smiles at her, gentle and sweet. "I missed you," he says.

She nods, even though he hasn't asked a question, and lets him kiss her hello.

  


* * *

  
Eponine does not usually go out on Thursdays, but Marius insists that they can't spend another anniversary at home. 

"Why not?" Eponine asks, feeling playful. "If we stay I'll be really nice."

Marius laughs. "Come out with me," he says.

So Eponine does. They go the Corinth, three train stops away from where Grantaire has his AA meetings. If he calls, Eponine can be there in fifteen minutes, plus however long it takes the train to make it to the station. In an emergency, she can be there in ten, if traffic is good and she gives a good tip. 

"You look really nice," Marius says, when Eponine meets him at the entrance of the bar.

They had dinner separately, because Eponine had to finish an animation project for a candy commercial. Marius stayed behind at work, because he needs to hand in something in the morning. 

"We should have just waited for the weekend," Eponine says.

But she's wearing her favorite black dress, and her shoes are comfortable. Marius is watching her, as though he's never seen her before, and she feels good about herself. Marius's hand is warm on her waist as he leads her into the bar, his presence welcome in the way it wasn't when Gavroche was over the day before.

"Just a quick drink," he says, pulling out Eponine's chair when they get to a table.

The bar is quiet for a Thursday, the music, background noise to the conversations around them. Eponine's chair is in the center of the small room, right across from a giant TV screen. Behind her is another table, another TV. 

Marius gets up to go to the bathroom, and Eponine waits. The bar is diagonal and to the left of her, and she recognizes Bahorel standing there. He's talking to the bartender, who's laughing as she hands him his drinks. 

Eponine doesn't talk to Bahorel much. He is Grantaire's friend, and he makes sure that Grantaire always makes it home when he drinks. She would like him, if only for that. Eponine doesn't know Bahorel, but she knows his type, because only people who know what's it like to have very little give so much. Bahorel doesn't know percentages. He just sticks his hands in his back pocket, counts out some bills, and puts them on the bar before he walks away. Eponine watches Bahorel walk over to a woman sitting by the windows next to the bar. She hadn't seen Bahorel when she walked in, but she buys him a drink for Monday night, and sends it with one of the waiters.

Bahorel looks right at her when the waiter leaves. Eponine watches him back carefully, and she doesn't know how to explain it, but there is something about Bahorel that speaks to the part of her that she tried to leave behind with her parents. She does not know him, but they are connected, not only through Grantaire, but through the experiences that age young adults like them.

Bahorel holds his drink up, finally. He nods at her, an acknowledgement that he knows who she is, and takes a drink.

Marius comes back soon after. "Did you order yet?" he asks.

Eponine smiles at him, as she eases forward across the table. "I was waiting for you," she says.

Marius orders them drinks, and talks about work. Eponine watches him, the way his face lights up when he talks about things that interest him. He has a habit of running a hand through his hair when he's gathering himself, a nervous tick that gives him away. Marius smiles with his entire face, his whole body relaxing, as though happiness is at home on his features. 

Eponine talks a bit about work, mostly about Grantaire, and Gavroche.

"Gavroche is doing well?" Marius asks.

He means nothing by it, of course. But Marius writes the checks for Gavroche's books, and it sounds like an accusation in Eponine's ears. 

"He's getting better grades than I am," Eponine says, quick and sharp.

She's immediately sorry for it. Marius doesn't notice.

"That's great," he says, so genuinely kind, so caring when Eponine knows he doesn't have to be.

They leave soon after, and Eponine is glad for the cool air on her face. Marius takes off his jacket and Eponine lets him wrap it around her. They walk hand in hand down the street, the lamps overhead casting shadows in front of them. There are very few cars on this side of town, fewer people walking the streets at nine at night, on a Thursday.

They stop at the corner as Marius looks for a cab. Eponine huddles down in Marius's coat, her dress and flats not really made for fall nights. She watches the passing cars, headlight after headlight heading away from her and down the street. She catches glimpses of people sometimes, a boy with headphones on the passenger's side, a little girl asleep with her head against the window. There's a mother mid-lecture, a laughing man, and a dog with its head out the window.

"I have to go," she tells Marius, watching another car speed by.

Marius turns, a puzzled look on his face. "Where are you going?" he asks.

Eponine opens her mouth to say something, and stops. She breathes in as another car rushes by, the air blowing her hair away from her face. She hears two boys talking to each other from across the street, two more people heading down the block to the train entrance. Her heart is beating loudly in her chest, her hands shaking.

"Just around," she says. "Might go see Grantaire."

"Oh," Marius says.

He looks at her expectantly. Eponine stares back.

"All right," he says, finally, confused, but still smiling. He moves towards her, gives her a quick hug, and a kiss on the forehead. "Take care," he says.

"See you later," Eponine tells him, turning to walk away.

She doesn't know where she's going, doesn’t know if Grantaire will even be at his meeting when she gets there. But she's no longer cold, and her heart is thumping a rhythm she can understand. She walks away, doesn't look back, because tonight, she wants just one thing that isn't about Marius.

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this fic comes from the title of the _Hollyoaks_ episode, "Brandon Brady's Last Dance."
> 
> I had posted this chapter before back in January, but I redid the whole fic, and am reposting now.


End file.
